The World is Changed
by 75mistakes
Summary: What if the Fellowship had another member? A tenth Walker? Witness the tale as it had never been told before.
1. Prologue: Shattered

22 years ago

Aragorn sat in the huge pavilion. Everywhere around him, he could see men and women getting merry and having a good time. The aroma of meat roasting and fresh fruits were soothing. It reminded him of the town of Bree.

Bree, however, was a far safer place than Rhûn.

This was Aragorn's third time traveling to Rhûn. The village, known as Sark by its inhabitants, settled along the shores of the inland Sea of Rhûn. It was one of the few places in Rhûn that enjoyed good relations with the Northmen and Dwarves. In return for jewels, tools, and toys, the Easterlings of the village gave them fine wine and exotic furs. The people here were untouched by the Dark Lord. The sleepy village wanted to keep it that way.

Strider smoked his pipe and enjoyed the view. The generosity of these folk was a far cry from that of other Easterling towns her had met. Then again, this town was much simpler than others. Those larger cities were ruled with an iron fist to meet Sauron's demands. Here, the men and women led jovial lives. They cared not for the lavish riches of their war-like brethren; they just wanted to live happily and peacefully.

A tall, balding man approached the ranger. He wore a red leather vest, a wool shirt, tweed trousers, and a ruby necklace that hung to his breast. He handed Aragorn a pint and laughed joyously.

"Drink up, my friend! It's a long way home for you. I doubt you'll have such a drink again!"

Aragorn smiled. "Indeed, Helfang. I've never experienced such a warm welcome."

Helfang laughed again. "Few people do when they make it this far east."

"I know. These are dark times. Recently in the West, Orcs and goblins have been making more and more raids. Has there been anything like that here?"

The Easterling thought for a moment, the smile on his face slowly disappearing. "Now that you mention it, a merchant from Esgaroth said something about goblin sightings west of Erebor. And I've heard rumors of forced drafts into the Rhûnic army."

"Pray that doesn't happen here."

"I shall. I'd rather be alive to see my children grow. They're so young; not even a year old." The Easterling pointed towards a woman wearing a leather jerkin. She held two babies in her arms. Their eyes were shut in the bliss of sleep. Helfang's wife smiled at them.

"How old are they?" inquired Aragorn.

Helfang smiled again. "About four or five months. I've lost count. Bréor grows like a weed. Kalina is a bit smaller than average. We've had trouble with her. She tends to get sick easily." At that moment Helfang got up and went to his wife. He picked up the little girl and held her close to his chest. He kissed her head. He and his wife smiled as the little boy sneezed in his sleep.

It was still dark out when Aragorn woke to the sound of horses whinnying. There was a commotion outside. Something was not right.

Aragorn stepped out, keeping his sword hidden under his cloak. All the men of Sark had gathered beneath the grand pavillion. The women looked from their tent openings to see what was going on. Aragorn could see that the men were talking to someone. As he approached, he saw a tall Easterling in bronze and iron armor standing upon a table. A long scimitar in his right hand commanded authority. A ways beyond the pavillion, Aragorn could make out another group of Easterling soldiers armed with axes, scimitars, and halberds. He could also see darker shapes among them. _Orcs_.

The ranger made his way into the crowd beside Helfang. The armed Easterling shouted in his native tongue.

"What's he saying, Helfang?"

The good-natured man, whose face was grim, replied. "It's a forced draft. He's saying if we don't join up, he'll slaughter us." This seemed to be why many of the village-folk were angry. Only four men had willingly joined. It seemed the commander wanted all of them.

Tension was high. A young man from the crowd pulled out a hand axe. Everyone backed away, unsure of what he was going to do. He threw it at the leader of the force, only to have it knock him off the table. When the commander got up, he let out a high-pitched whistle. The heavy trod of footsteps came quickly. The small army was charging.

Many men ran for their homes to gather weapons. Some charged with weapon in hand already. Few ran away altogether. Aragorn drew his blade and dashed towards his tent. He knew this was going to be a bloodbath.

Just minutes had passed and much of the town was being decimated. Orcs and Easterling warriors burned tents and slew many. They had received training, unlike these poor village-folk. The village Easterlings made up for it with sheer determination. Aragorn saw a one-armed man kill six Orcs before he was finally taken down.

The ranger readied himself as he saw four Easterling warriors headed for him. As one lifted its axe, Strider ducked to the side and slashed his leg. The man crumpled forward and tried to stand himself up. Another axeman swung for Aragorn's neck. He was just barely able to jump back. The other two warriors were armed with scimitars and attempted to flank him. Instead, Aragorn turned to the man on his right. He swung his blade fiercely, aiming for the midsection. With his opponent focused on protecting his stomach, the ranger quickly stabbed upward. His sword smashed through the Easterling's helmet and into his face. Aragorn looked at his blade; in the reflection, he could see the man behind him raise his sword high. Without missing a beat, he pulled the sword out of the man's face, fluidly turned and swung the sword up into the other man's shoulder. The force was enough for Aragorn to slice his foe's arm off. As he fell to the ground, Aragorn brought the blade down on his enemy's stomach. Blood spurted out the Easterling's mouth. The secondary axeman came charging full speed. Aragorn could not hear his war cry over sound of destruction. As the man got closer, Strider held his weapon in front of him. Before the man could bring his weapon down, he struck the Easterling's helmet. The man was knocked off balance and fell into a barrel. Aragorn sealed it and kicked the barrel into one of the burning tents.

He turned towards where the first Easterling had been crippled. Strider was astonished to see that he had been able to limp away towards the pavillion. He knew he'd be looking for reinforcements. Aragorn ran after him, knowing he couldn't have been far.

He found his man. Instead of an axe, the man now carried a shield. Aragorn shouted and charged. It was a mistake for him to abandon the element of surprise; the Easterling turned and ducked behind his shield. With great force, the man lifted it upward as the ranger was about to swing. The rectangular hunk of metal slammed into his torso and sent him flying over the man into a table. Blackness took over his sight as the Easterling ran away.

He slowly regained his senses. The smell of ash and smoke and blood filled his nostrils. The crackling of fire on wood was all he could hear. When he opened his eyes, the sunrise was bleak. Just like the night.

Aragorn rose from the broken table. He had a few splinters on him, but he'd live. He looked around. There was no trace of any living thing; only death. The bodies of Orcs and Easterlings filled the village. The ranger was careful not to step on bodies when he could. He quickly made his way for his friend's tent.

Luckily, the tent was still intact. He opened the flap and saw a sad sight. Helfang's body was lying in the center of the tent. An axe had shattered his breastbone. The ruby necklace he wore was split in half. A knife in his hand was his only defense. His wife lay against a wall of the tent. Her throat had been slit.

Aragorn went to their bodies and gently closed their eyelids. When he sat beside Helfang, he gently held the necklace in his hands. Although the ruby had been broken, the pieces still fit together perfectly. He took it from his friend's neck as a memoriam.

As he was about to leave, Strider heard something. It was so faint, he could barely hear it. It was a quiet cough. He turned and followed the sound to a clump of blankets. Inside were the two babies. The girl looked up at him with a confused look. The boy rubbed his eyes. He seemed displeased by the man waking him from his rest.

"What am I to do with you?" Aragorn asked. As a response, Kalina grabbed for his finger. It almost brought a smile to Aragorn's face. Bréor began to cry once he realized the man looking down at him wasn't his father. Aragorn hushed him when he handed them small pieces of cheese he found on the table.

He picked up the small children and put them in a large basket he found. He quickly scoured the area for any necessity to sustain himself and his newfound cargo. It was going to be a long trip home. Along the way, he could think of what to do with the children.


	2. Chapter 1: In the Company of Rangers

It was a cold, wet night outside.

The hooded figure stood behind the door listening for the small footsteps. _They'd be here soon,_ he thought. He could hear the muffled voice of his master from the other side of the hall. With a bit of straining, he could hear his master's company.

After a few minutes, the patter of feet was heard from the hallway. The footsteps were faint, but he could make out the three voices arguing and worrying amongst themselves. They all sounded scared and determined at the same time.

He let the trespassers go into the hallway a ways before kicking open the door. The hooded man drew his sword and stepped into the hallway. He pointed it menacingly at the three Hobbits. Almost immediately, they dropped in fear.

"Good boys," the man laughed. He sheathed his sword and picked two of the Hobbits up without any difficulty. The final one stood up, confused. "Open that door." The man nudged his forehead towards the end of the hallway. His captive did as he was told. Inside, a tall man and another Hobbit were speaking.

"Mr. Frodo!"

"Sam!"

Sam stood speechless. The man behind him gave him a quick kick and he scurried in. He then threw the other two Hobbits onto the bed.

"Well, this wasn't what I was expecting, Pip."

"Eh, Merry?"

"I was expecting something more along the lines of a puddle of mud. But I'm not complaining."

Frodo smiled for a moment before turning towards the hooded figure. "Who are you?"

"Strider, shall I?" the hooded figure asked. Aragorn nodded. The man lifted his hood, revealing shoulder-length black hair. His eyes were brown and keen. He lifted his mask, revealing his young face. His skin was slightly tan and he had a scraggly goatee. Like Aragorn, he seemed dirty and well-traveled. The one clean ornament he had on him was a necklace with what appeared to be a shattered ruby. "My name is Bréor. That's all you need to know."

The Hobbit named Sam stepped forward. "So what's your business with us?"

"Gandalf asked us to watch you," Aragorn replied.

"You're friends of Gandalf?"

"For many years, yes."

This was enough to gain Frodo's trust.

The trek was long and exhausting. The party of six traveled through rain and rock, snow and swamp. Still, they were many, many miles from Rivendell.

It was a warm night at the Midgewater Marshes. Frodo could not sleep. He had his mind bent around the latest happenings. Leaving the Shire, arriving in Bree, almost being killed by the Nazgûl on two occasions; they had just barely escaped Bree without being spotted by the Nazgûl. And now he was stuck in the middle of a swamp with his friends and two Rangers of the North.

_Damn_, he thought. _Hopefully, this will soon be over_.

The pleasant aroma of pipe-weed wafted into his nostrils. Frodo rose to see the younger ranger sitting against a log. He twiddled the pipe in between his thumb and forefinger. He tapped his foot against a small rock every few seconds. The Hobbit stared at him curiously.

"Can't sleep either?" the ranger asked. Frodo was caught off-guard. He didn't think the Man was paying attention to him.

"Who can with all this new-found excitement?"

"Apparently, your friends can," he said, pointing to the three slumbering Hobbits. Frodo chuckled.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Frodo inquired. "What did you say your name was?"

The Man placed his pipe in his lap. "Bréor."

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well. Master Strider says you're the one carrying the Ring."

Frodo's face darkened. He gave only a light nod. Bréor sensed his unease. He passed Frodo his pipe.

"Cheer up," he said. "In a few days, all this will be over."

Frodo inhaled the pipe and stared off into the marshes for a few seconds. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Pardon?" Bréor asked.

"I haven't been able to get a good night's rest thanks to all of this mayhem created by Uncle Bilbo's gift. Why can't you sleep?"

"For one, I'm on guard duty," he gave the Frodo a sharp look. The Hobbit nodded and gave him his pipe back. Frodo crawled back to where he had been laying and tried to rest. Bréor clutched the broken ruby on his chest and stared at it.

"Also," he whispered. "I really don't know."

The loud shrieks from Weathertop pierced the night. Aragorn and Bréor rushed up the steps to the top. They leapt with torches and swords in hand.

"Damn those Riders!" Bréor shouted.

As they reached the top, they saw the half-circle of the Nazgûl. One of them had stepped forward, knife in hand. The knife was now in Frodo's chest. Without time to think, Aragorn leapt into the fray.

He was a flurry of steel and flame. Each stroke of his sword clashed against theirs and shed sparks. Each wave of the torch singed their black robes. Aragorn seemed more than a match for them to the Hobbits.

Bréor shielded Sam, Merry, and Pippin. His sword and torch were ready for the fight. The Riders had their attention fixed on Strider. Those who he had bested fled into the night. The final Rider received a special parting gift: a torch thrown into his face, setting his hood ablaze as he shrieked.

Strider dashed towards Frodo. He inspected the wound. "He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade. This is beyond my skill. We must get to Rivendell."

Strider lifted the young hobbit over his shoulder and ran down the steps of Amon Sûl. Bréor and the hobbits followed hastily. Sam's face was filled with distress.

"We're six days from Rivendell! We'll never make it."


	3. Chapter 2: The Council of Elrond

_Several days later…_

Bréor stretched his legs along the river bank. The waters of the River Bruinen were slow and lazy. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and smiled. Rivendell was as beautiful as ever.

He remembered how the journey had almost taken a turn for the worst. Luckily, Aragorn's old friend Glorfindel had come looking for them once news had spread of the Nazgûl. The Elf had ridden on with the young Baggins and brought him to Imladris safely. Any later and the hobbit would have been a servant of Sauron.

That had been a close call. Yet still, Bréor was noticing much change around him. Men, Elves, and even Dwarves were arriving in Rivendell. He had pried Aragorn what was happening. The elder ranger would only reply with "You'll see at the Council."

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old…" began Lord Elrond. As far as the young ranger could tell, this was truly the case. There were few he could recognize. Of course, he knew Elrond and Aragorn, who he sat between. Farther to the left side were Gandalf the Grey and the Hobbit Frodo Baggins. The Men, Elves, and Dwarves had formed segregated groups. He recognized two Elves: Glorfindel and Legolas of the Mirkwood realm. He knew no one else. However, judging by the heraldry and make of their arms and armor, Bréor identified that the individuals around him came from Mirkwood, Lórien, Erebor, the Iron Hills, Rohan, Dale, and Gondor. The Dwarves and Gondorians in particular were casting him evil glances. "… you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands of the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom. Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

The small Hobbit cautiously rose. Walking to the center of the group, he placed the Ring on a stone pedestal. All eyes were now glued to the small piece of gold.

"So it is true," Bréor heard a Gondorian whisper. The man stood from his seat, wearing a fine leather tunic over a shirt and chainmail. "It is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor! Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe." The man seemed to hover around the pedestal, almost ready to snatch it up. "Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!"

Bréor had heard enough. He had expected someone to say something like this. He was about to stand, but Aragorn beat him. "You cannot wield it. None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

The Gondorian fixed his gaze at the ranger. His countenance showed annoyance at this defiance. "And what would a ranger know of this matter."

The elf Legolas was next to stand. "This is no mere ranger. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And you owe him your allegiance."

"This," the man started, pointing at Bréor's master, "is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor."

Speaking in Elvish, Aragorn told the Elf to sit. Boromir also went back to his seat, steam coming out of his ears.

"Gondor has no king… Gondor needs no king."

Bréor was tired of the Gondorian's disrespect. He stood and put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Show some respect! This man has done more good in his life than you ever could!" Aragorn looked up at his apprentice with annoyance. He should not have done that.

The other man rose again. His face was red and his grey eyes burned with rage. "Brave words coming from an Easterling! Tell me, how many thousands of my people have your ancestors killed? How many Dwarven mines have you ransacked? How many Elves did your kind betray from the stories so many have heard? What place do you have here? You're nothing but a wolf in sheep's clothing!"

This man had tested Bréor long enough. His own brown eyes filled with anger as he drew his hand off of Aragorn. Before he could move an inch, his mentor had grabbed his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his chest. The Gondorian laughed.

"You cannot hide your brutality… nor can you run from your cowardice. You're lucky he grabbed you; you would have had to find a way to escape my blade."

Aragorn threw his underling back into his seat. His look expressed disappointment. The young man took a quick glance around. Many of the Council members were bereft of patience. Some of the Men chuckled.

Gandalf finally stood, his staff clacking against the stone floor. "Though you may be well-versed in history, Boromir, son of Denethor, Bréor poses no harm. He's been in Aragorn's tutelage since he was found as a child. And though indeed he is of Rhûnic heritage, never in all my years have I seen a man filled with such a sense of duty and loyalty," the wizard explained.

The grey man gave Bréor a small smile. The young ranger had spent long hours in the past listening to Gandalf's tales. He always loved the story of how Erebor was reclaimed by the Dwarves. Gandalf also told him much of the Eastern lands. Bréor wanted to know if his own background was as devious as that of most Easterlings. The wizard never knew; he'd always tell him to ask Aragorn, but the heir of Isildur would never reveal anything except that the ruby he carried was a gift from his parents.

"Aragorn is right," the wizard continued. "We cannot use it."

"You have only one choice: the Ring must be destroyed," Elrond declared.

Without missing a beat, a red-bearded Dwarf stood and grabbed a large axe. "What are we waiting for?" Raising the axe high above his head, he brought it hard upon the Ring. A great spark was made as the remarkable happened: the axe— not the Ring— was smashed. The One Ring itself was unscathed. Upon impact, Bréor could see Frodo out of the corner of his eye. He was clutching his head as if he had a headache.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Gloin, by any craft we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be brought deep into Mordor and cast into the fiery chasm from whence it came," Elrond took a deep breath, "one of you must do this."

Everyone was speechless. However, Boromir once again spoke. This time it was of the terrors of Mordor. He called the plan folly. This man was grating on Bréor's nerves.

"Have you heard nothing?" he exclaimed. "The Ring must be destroyed!"

Boromir stood up and approached him. He stood a few inches taller than Bréor and was clearly wider. "What will happen when that fails? Will you take the Ring back to your Easterling butchers?"

Upon that, everyone rose and began to bicker. Elves, Men, and Dwarves were pitted against each other in a war of words, explaining why their race was poorly suited to head into Mordor. Gandalf and Aragorn seemed to be the only ones to keep their heads. Elrond watched in silence.

All of a sudden, a small voice was heard above the arguments.

"I will take it. I will take it," all turned to see the young Frodo Baggins standing with the Ring in his hand. His blue eyes were filled with duty but sank into regret. "I will take the Ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way."

Gandalf slowly hobbled to the Hobbit's side. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear."

Aragorn knelt by the young Halfling. "If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will. You have my sword."

Legolas and Gimli were next, piping in they'd bring their weapons of choice. Bréor strode beside the Hobbit and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Should any creature of evil set their foul gaze upon you, they shall be blinded. Should anything attempt to chase you, they shall be crippled. Should anything want your life, they'll have to take mine first." He smiled at his small friend.

"You carry the fates of us all, little one," Boromir started. "If this is indeed the will of the Council, the Gondor will see it done." Bréor felt a pang of regret when his rival joined in. However, he gave him credit. He was a brave man to endanger himself like this.

A small cough was heard as Sam Gamgee raced up the steps beside his friend. "Mr Frodo's not going anywhere without me!"

"It is indeed hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not," Elrond jested. Sam's face showed a little pang of guilt. More unexpected company came from Merry and Pippin as they ran in from another direction. They too wanted to join in on the perilous mission. Elrond stared at the company with amusement. "Ten companions… So be it: you shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

_A wizard, an Elf, a Dwarf, three Men, and four Halflings_, Bréor thought. _This will be quite intriguing._

"Great!" Pippin exclaimed. His face immediately fell into a look of sincere curiosity. "Where are we going?"


	4. Chapter 3: The Dream

_Never did I have the slightest hope that I'd finally find you… __Bréor…_

"Bréor? Bréor!"

The ranger woke to a tap on the shoulder. He rolled over and his blurry eyes saw a mass of red.

"Wake up, lad," a gruff voice said. It was Gimli.

The young man rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. A grey sky was cast in the land of Hollin. A crow's cawing echoed in the distance.

He could see that the others were already up. Gandalf sat patiently on a rock while Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas stood. Frodo Baggins stood by the elder ranger's side.

_Where are the other Halflings?_

A loud snore answered his question. Bréor looked over his shoulder and saw Sam, Merry, and Pippin sleeping soundly. It was a shame that their peace needed to be broken.

_Why are they even here? __This is no task for such small people._

For eleven hours, they trekked through the wilderness. They passed ruins and craggy cliffs. They crossed over streams and through woods. Each step they took brought them closer to their goal; and closer to doom.

Gandalf allowed them to rest amongst a rocky outcrop covered in shrubs. It was a relief for all, especially the Hobbits.

Bréor leaned against a log and closed his eyes. _Peace, at last_.

Suddenly, the log shifted. With a thud, he found himself on his back, sharp rocks digging into him. For a moment, he was confused. He looked up. Boromir stood with one foot on the log.

The Gondorian chuckled. "My mistake."

He knew the Gondorian hated him, but never thought he'd resort to something so childish. Bréor picked himself up and propped himself against a larger boulder. The Hobbits sat around a fire they had made to cook some sausages. Boromir sat besides Aragorn, whispering. Bréor wondered if it was about him. He could not see where the others were from his vantage point. He didn't care. He intended to close his eyes and continue the dream.

He found himself surrounded by shadows. Complete blackness swallowed him. He couldn't hear or see anything. Nothing supported his feet; he felt as if he should be falling.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his neck. Bréor looked down; the ruby he wore was pulling him forward. It was drawn to something.

He followed the path his pendant made. Like a compass, if he moved in a different direction, the ruby still pointed true. He walked for what felt like hours.

With each step, something amazing happened: something bright glowed in the distance like a star. As he got closer, it grew brighter and larger. For what seemed to be another hour, he hastily crossed the shadowy plain to reach the light.

He stopped. Where there was once darkness, there was now nothing but pure light. Where the black and white met, there was no grey. It was pure contrast. The ruby's pull was now stronger than ever. Standing in front of Bréor was a woman. She was shorter than him but he could tell nothing more of her features, for the light was too bright for him. Like him, a ruby was around her neck; it was drawn to Bréor.

The two approached each other. The two rubies were now touching, battering against each other. He could see that like his, the woman's jewel was broken. He wondered.

She held her hand out.

He gently placed her hand in his.

The rubies joined together like a matching puzzle pieces.

A breathless voice whispered to him.

_Never did I have the slightest hope that I'd finally find you… __Bréor…_

This dream had haunted his sleep since he had met Frodo. Since he had been close to the Ring.


	5. Chapter 4: Knowing

The young woman stared out past the ramparts of the third level.

The sun was blazing over Minas Tirith. There was not a cloud to be seen (with the exception of those seen over Mordor in the far distance). The girl tilted her head up and closed her eyes a moment to catch the sun's rays. She loved the warmth.

She wore a simple blue and white dress made from linen and cotton. On her feet were leather sandals. They were dirty from that day's work. She was a rather short girl, being around the same height as a Dwarf. She had cut her own hair, making it short and ragged, almost wild. Her brown eyes shone like topaz. Her skin was pale.

The girl opened her eyes and looked down on the Fields of Pelennor. She made out two tiny figures approaching the Great City. _Two horses_, she thought. _And… one rider_.

When she heard the gate begin to creak, she along the wall and bounded down the stairs. She dodged every obstacle in her way with ease. By the time she reached the courtyard of the first level, she had hardly broken a sweat.

With the gates wide open, the girl could see the rider and his horses. He was a tall man wearing a leather jerkin. His hair was short, black, and graying. He rode a grey mare with white legs. He held the reigns to the horse behind him, a chestnut stallion. She quickly ran over and took the reigns of both horses for him.

The Gondorian smiled as he dismounted. "I believe you may have gotten here in record time."

She laughed as she led the horses to a nearby stable. "I do my best. Seems like it's not enough to others, though."

"That'll have to be fixed soon. Have you come across any trouble since we left, Kalina?"

The girl shrugged. "If it's not a boy stealing one of my things, it's another trying to be a Peeping Tom."

"You know what I meant."

Kalina looked at the ground as she walked."None of the soldiers have tried to hurt me… since the last time. Haraen, where is Lord Boromir?"

Haraen sat on a crate and placed his hands on the back of his head. "He's somewhere."

"Where, Haraen? Don't play games with me; I'm asking a serious question."

"And that was a serious answer. I know not where he is now. He and the others have quite a journey on their hands."

Kalina had finished putting the horses in their rightful places. She plopped herself in a pile of straw. "And one other thing, how is it that everyone in the city but me knows what's going on? I don't know why Boromir had to leave and you come back. I ask, but no one answers."

Haraen chuckled. "No one knows. If you'd ask people in the marketplace, you'd get some wild and crazy tale. Only Lord Denethor, Faramir, and I know… and it is indeed a wild and crazy tale. Care to hear it?"

She nodded eagerly.

"You know the tale of Isildur and the Ring, right?" he asked. She nodded. "I'll skip that then and get to what you don't know. As it turns out, the Ring was found. First it went to this one cave creature, then a Halfling found it, and then another got it. He was brought to Rivendell to keep the Ring safe. We were all called there to figure out a plan of action. Turns out there's only one thing to do: destroy it. But the only way you can is to throw it into the lava of Mount Doom. Suicide, right? And who takes up the task? Four Hobbits, an Elf, a Dwarf, Lord Boromir, the supposed king of Gondor, an Easterling ranger, and Gandalf the Grey. Never in all my days have I seen such an odder cast of characters."

_Gandalf's going to Mordor_? The wizard came to Minas Tirith every now and then. She loved his visits. He had only just come a few months prior to find information from the library. It was through him that she learned the tale of the Ring of Power. But who were these other people? Halflings? An Elf? A Dwarf? An Easterling? And who was this King of Gondor?

"How is it an Easterling made his way that far west?" Kalina asked.

"Funny you should ask. He is an apprentice of Aragorn, the Ranger of the North who's supposed to be king. I guess he rescued him or something. Also, get this: Aragorn doesn't WANT to be king. Odd, right?"

"I guess that is kind of weird."

….

It was nightfall. Kalina was tired from her jobs at the stables. Her home was on the fourth level. It was a small crudely built house. It wasn't much, but it was comfortable.

She opened the door and _slrrrrp_! The pink tongue of her Bull greeted her. He was a huge wolfhound with shaggy black hair. He was possibly the largest dog in the city, yet he was the gentlest thing in the world. He let out a few whimpers and bounded across the room.

"You big baby!" she laughed. "I'm gone for a few hours and you can't handle that." She ran after him and rubbed behind his ears. Then she found her bed and flung herself on it. She was exhausted. She didn't want to sleep though. Her mind was filled with the tale Haraen had told. She wanted to know more.

She looked up at the ceiling for a few minutes and let her imagination run free. She imagined these hapless heroes having a great battle in Mordor. They slew thousands of Orcs. Gandalf summoned a heavenly light to break the shadowy clouds. Boromir slew a dragon with his own hands.

Her eyes grew tired. She lifted herself up and reached for something on the bed stand. It was a white cloth that held her greatest treasure. She unwrapped it; it was a necklace made with a ruby that had been broken. She put it on and held it close to her breast. Bull leapt onto the bed and lay beside her. She smiled.

She could now dream peacefully.


End file.
